The White Road n-5

by Lynn Flewelling

  Beggar’s Bridge had no piers or jetties, just a line of dinghies upended on the beach. Dani and Alec dragged their boat down to the water’s edge.

  “What has the Lady been up to since we last saw you?”

  Dani gave him a gap-toothed grin. “We took thirteen carracks this winter, and one of them was loaded with north country gold baps. Another had Aurënfaie wine and silks and all sorts of lady’s things. There were even some slaves, and we carried them all the way home to Aurënen. We lost two, though. They threw themselves overboard. Damned if I know why.”

  “The Lightbearer will bless you all with luck for your kindness to those who made it home,” said Seregil.

  Dani manned the oars and they were soon skimming along past the fishing boats and out toward the broad mouth of what had been Ero Harbor.

  The Green Lady’s two masts cast writhing double lines of black across the water; Alec could just make out the shape of her figurehead. The “green lady” pressed one hand to her ample bosom, the other to her rounded belly. The flowing folds of her dark hair and gown shone silver and black in the moonlight.

  Lanterns glowed fore and aft, and the windows of the cabins at the stern were lit up. Dani put his fingers to his lips and let out a shrill whistle as they approached. With a crew of forty men one step up from being pirates, it was better not to surprise anyone.

  The boy’s whistle was answered with another and was followed by the rattle and splash of the rope ladder being let down for them.

  Rhal—together with his helmsman, Skywake, and Nettles, the first mate—was there to meet them as they climbed aboard. “Welcome, my lords. And Micum Cavish, too! Well met, sir. It’s been a while. How’s the leg?”

  “I manage,” Micum laughed, clasping hands with Rhal.

  The captain was dark and stocky, and going a bit bald, but still rakish enough to attract women in any port. He was northern-born, like Micum and Alec, and with his black beard he could pass for a Plenimaran. On occasion, he had. He greeted Seregil and Alec warmly, then turned to Rieser and extended his hand. “I haven’t had the pleasure, sir.”

  Rieser ignored the hand. “I am Rieser í Stellen.”

  “I can’t place your accent.”

  “No need to,” Seregil told him.

  “Fair enough.” Rhal was used to secrets. “It’s been a long time since you’ve called for me.”

  “We had a bit of trouble.”

  “You have a ‘bit of trouble’ more often than not,” Rhal noted as he led them belowdecks to the small guest cabin. “What was it this time? Angry wizards? Plots against the queen? An outraged wife? Or did you get caught in the wrong house with your fingers in the jewel box?”

  “Slavery, actually,” Alec told him.

  Rhal shook his head. “Well, that’s a new one.”

  “You are lords and thieves?” asked Rieser.

  “Depends on the company,” Seregil replied.

  Their cabin was more luxurious than Alec recalled. The wide bunk was fitted out with a red velvet coverlet with silver fringe, and an ornate lantern on the hook overhead cast fretwork shadows across the small polished table, the velvet tufted chairs, and the silver cups and crystal decanter in a fancy leather box on the narrow sideboard.

  “What happened here?” asked Seregil. “It looks like a Street of Lights whorehouse.”

  “We’ve had good fishing,” Rhal replied with a wink as he poured them cups of fine Zengati brandy.

  “So Dani said. Have you given the queen her share?”

  “Of course, but that doesn’t mean I can’t keep the best back for myself. And you, of course, as our patron. I’ve sent your share in coin to your man in Wheel Street.”

  “Thank you.”

  Alec knew that Seregil never asked for an accounting; he had more gold than he knew what to do with in various Rhíminee money houses, under various names. He did the same with clothing and traveling gear; he had caches all over the city in sewer tunnels and abandoned houses, always ready for a quick change or escape.

  Rhal and Rieser remained standing as the others found places on the room’s two chairs and the bed. “So, where are we bound this time?”

  “Riga,” Alec told him.

  Rhal raised an eyebrow. “That’s a tall order. The Overlord has half his navy anchored there, and most of the ships are full of marines.”

  “You can put us ashore outside the city where you’ll draw less attention,” said Seregil.

  “It still means changing the sails. We’ll have to put in at one of the Strait Isles for at least a day.” He’d captured a set of striped Plenimaran sails soon after the Lady first sailed and often used them to slip into enemy waters. “I can have you across in a week, if the winds cooperate. In the meantime, if the shape in that bag of yours is what I think it is, perhaps you and Lord Alec can provide us with some entertainment during the crossing.”

  Seregil reached into the bag at his feet and took out the harp Adzriel had given him. He plucked a few notes and grimaced. “After a bit of tuning.”

  Alec reached into his own bag and took out one of the iron collars. “We need another of these, too.”

  “I’ve got a collection of them, taken off the poor bastards we found on some of the ships we’ve taken,” said Rhal. “Now, for accommodations. There isn’t room for all of you in here.”

  “I’ll berth with the crew, if they have an extra hammock,” said Micum.

  “There’s no need for that. Take the third cabin, next to mine.”

  “I will sleep on the deck,” Rieser told him.

  “You don’t know ships,” said Micum. “You’d be lucky not to get washed overboard if a storm comes up. You take the cabin. I’ll stay with the crew.”

  Alec couldn’t tell if Rieser was more surprised by Micum or himself as he nodded slightly and muttered, “Thank you.”

  Morthage had a been a crew member on the Lady for over a year now, and liked his captain and the work. So he felt a bit guilty as he slipped below to his billet and took out one of the bespelled message sticks his other employer supplied him with. Breaking it, he whispered, “Lord Seregil and Alec have returned to the ship—”

  When he was done, a little ball of magic light sped away through the thick planking of the hull.

  CHAPTER 24

  Return to a Dead Man’s house

  THE SHIP’S lantern swung on its hook as Ilar clung to the heavy bench fixed to the floor beside the little table in Ulan’s cabin. The White Seal was a large merchant ship, broad in the beam and built to cross stormy seas, but the rolling of the floor under his feet was still alarming. The rains had come their second day out from Virésse—and the swells that had kept Ilar bent over the rail for most of that day, until he grew accustomed to the rocking of the ship. But even that did not match the torture of being trapped on this vessel with so many strangers—men who seemed to look right through him to the shame and weakness he carried in his heart. Without the khirnari to protect him, he wouldn’t have dared venture out of the cabin they shared. Ulan was coughing more, too.

  They were already under way when word had come from Ulan’s spy that Lord Seregil’s privateering vessel, the Green Lady, had docked at Beggar’s Bridge, and that Seregil was aboard, together with Alec—who’d shorn his hair and dyed it brown—a Tír named Cavish, and a ’faie with the odd name of Rieser. There was no mention of the rhekaro, or the Tír wizard who’d been with them in Gedre.

  “That is troubling, yet fortune has smiled on us all the same, Ilar,” Ulan had told him. “If they have gone all the way to Beggar’s Bridge, then they may well be going back to Riga on the same errand as ours. Do you think Alec knows about the books?”

  “He could have seen them, as I did.”

  “Assuming that he does, then we’ve still stolen a march on them. We’ll have the books, and perhaps Alec, as well. And if so, we shall learn what has become of the rhekaro.”

  “What if they aren’t going there?” asked Ilar.

  “One
step at a time, dear fellow,” Ulan had said with a smile.

  Ilar gripped the bench until his fingers ached, trying to rein in the hope and excitement that overwhelmed him again. Please, Aura, let them come to us in Plenimar!

  “Come now, dear boy, and pay attention,” Ulan chided gently, tapping the drawing spread between them on the table.

  “What? Oh, yes.”

  At the khirnari’s request, Ilar had drawn the outline of each floor of his former master’s workshop, and marked out the contents of each room as well as he could remember.

  “You are certain this is where the book your master showed me is kept?” Ulan asked, tapping a finger on the X Ilar had labeled for him.

  “Yes, in the little painted tent.”

  “And if it is not there?”

  Panic tightened Ilar’s chest. “There are other books. Shelves of them, Khirnari. He might have hidden the books I saw among them. I’m sure I can find them!”

  Ilar didn’t dare ask what would happen if he failed, knowing how close they would be to the slave markets of Riga. Why would this great man keep him if Ilar proved himself worthless? He had nightmares every night: the horrors of the slave markets, the cruel masters he’d survived before Ilban Yhakobin had taken pity on him, and always the terrible night that Ilban had him whipped and said he was going back to the markets …

  Those dreams had not gone away, but now he also dreamed of those days abandoned in the wilderness after the slave takers had caught up with them. He didn’t know how long he’d spent lost in the cold rain with no shelter, no food, and no water but what he could suck from a depression in a stone or a muddy rill. He didn’t know how many days he’d wandered, shaking with hunger and certain every moment that the slave takers would find him. How could they not, with their dogs?

  Instead, Ulan’s men had found him dying in a ditch. He still carried that coldness, that fear, deep in the core of his soul, and nothing could ever take it away. Except, perhaps, to find Seregil and beg for … He still could not decide what it was he wanted, but the hunger was eating away at his mind. The thought of being alone in the world again froze him with terror.

  The White Seal made port at Riga in fair weather, but Ilar felt sick. Hiding in the cabin, he peered out the porthole as the cargo was unloaded at one of the many quays. A land breeze brought him the scent of the city—the smoke and reek of it—and he thought he could even smell the sweat and despair of the slave markets. It was something he knew all too well. Only when Ulan came looking for him was he able to leave the cabin. Ilar was dressed in Aurënfaie style, and a Virésse sen’gai covered his cropped hair, but he also wore a lace-edged slave veil tied securely to hide all of his face below his eyes.

  Emerging into the sunlight, trying to ignore the stares of the crew and other passengers, he took the old man’s arm as if to steady him, but in truth it was the only way he could walk down the gangplank without his own legs giving way under him. He had no brand, no collar! What if someone discovered that?

  Ulan gave him an understanding smile and patted his hand. “Steady now, dear fellow, there’s nothing to fear. No one will dare touch me in this city, or trouble anyone wearing the sen’gai of my clan—at least not in daylight. You are a freedman under my protection here.”

  His words were little comfort as they set off into the city in a hired carriage. An armed escort rode behind them, led by a hard-eyed captain named Urien. Even wearing the colors of Virésse, Ulan practiced caution, not trusting the Plenimarans, despite the trade agreement that allowed him and his ships to come into Plenimaran harbors.

  “I have a small but very secure house down that way,” Ulan told him, pointing down a street that ran along the harbor’s edge. “I daresay we shall end up there shortly. I doubt the good lady will tolerate our presence for long.”

  At the slave market, an auction was in progress on the very platform where Ilar had once been sold, and it was being overseen by the same lean, hatchet-faced dealer who’d sold him. Everywhere he looked, he saw misery and the dealers in flesh.

  Ulan took his hand again and murmured, “Never again, my friend.”

  Ilar had some respite from fear when they left the city, but terror began anew as they finally neared the outskirts of Yhakobin’s estate. By the time they drove down the tree-lined lane and through the gates, he was trembling uncontrollably and blinking back tears. If Ilbana recognized him, even Ulan would not be able to save him.

  “Calm yourself,” Ulan said sternly.

  When the carriage came to a halt, it took all his tattered will to get out. He’d never imagined being here again, walking up these white marble steps between the tall red pillars that flanked the ornate double doors of the entrance.

  Servants Ilar recognized met them and escorted them into the black-and-white paved courtyard. One of them was Ahmol, who had been Ilban’s assistant. Ilar nearly fainted when the man gave him a sharp look, but Ahmol showed no sign that he recognized him.

  The front courtyard looked just the same—the long fountain pool surrounded with statues, the shaded portico, and, at the far end, the archway through which lay his dead master’s workshop. Ilbana Meran and her two young children—little master Osri and his younger sister, Amela—met them there, and Ilar was introduced as a newly ransomed slave. To Ilar’s relief, she hardly spared him a glance. Master Osri stared at him for a moment, though, and Ilar’s heart turned over in his breast; the child was spoiled and spiteful, and had always treated Ilar with contempt. If he discovered who Ilar really was, he would surely tell.

  Ilbana did not offer the khirnari her hand, and greeted him with a somewhat questioning look. As Ulan had told him, relations had not been warm between them. “Ulan í Sathil, welcome back to my home, though I fear you will find it empty without my husband to entertain you.” Her tone was not as welcoming as her words.

  “That’s quite all right,” Ulan assured her. “I am grateful for your hospitality.”

  “Of course. I’ve had rooms prepared in the east wing for you and your people.”

  The one with the windows overlooking the workshop yard, Ilar thought with a shudder, wondering if the whipping post was still there.

  Suddenly Ilbana turned and looked straight at him. “And this one? It’s not safe to let him walk around without you, even if he is a freedman. We had several slaves escape this past winter. You remember Khenir, I’m sure. He was one of them. The other two were new. I never knew their names, but I believe they are the ones who murdered my husband. My guards are very protective of the children and me. It wouldn’t do for this veiled one to wander about unescorted, especially at night.”

  “I understand. I prefer to keep him by me in any event. He is quite invaluable as a servant, no doubt due to his training as a slave. He was only a boy when he was brought here from Virésse.” The khirnari spoke lightly, though the kidnapping and enslavement of his clan members would have been a blood feud offense on Aurënen soil.

  “Why does he still wear the veil, if he’s free?” the boy demanded rudely.

  “He is too frightened not to, in this land,” Ulan replied calmly, smiling as if Osri had addressed him with proper respect.

  “What is your name?” little Amela lisped, staring up at him now with wide brown eyes.

  Ilar’s mouth went dry and he nearly blurted it before Ulan spoke for him.

  “He is called Nira, and he is a mute,” he told the girl, then, to her mother, “Another reason to keep him by me. He’s quite timid.”

  “Ah, I see. Just as well, I suppose. At least he has attractive eyes.”

  Much to Ilar’s relief, she then appeared to dismiss him from her mind altogether. Like any slave, he might as well be empty air unless she had some use for him.

  Ulan waited several days before broaching the subject of Ilban’s workshop. He really did have business to attend to, including a shipment of ransomed slaves Yhakobin had assembled for him. Some were still at the barns—Ulan had kindly left Ilar under guard in the carri
age when they went there—while others had been sold, and so had to be tracked down all over again.

  The khirnari also dined with the family, and seemed intent on becoming their friend. He played with the children in the garden beyond the workshop, watching them play ball and helping to feed the precious fish in the fountain basin. Ulan had brought them clever Aurënfaie toys, too, and soon even Osri began to warm to him, even though the khirnari was “only a ’faie.”

  Ilar felt lightheaded the first time they walked through the archway to the courtyard that had been Ilban’s. The workshop loomed at the back of it, by the tinkling wall fountain and the herb beds. It had been one of Ilar’s tasks to gather and dry the herbs. A few green sprouts were pushing up through the compost—mints, chives, mugwort, and the nightshades and dragon tongue vines he’d worn gloves to handle. The whipping post was still there, too, with a hank of frayed rope dangling from the iron ring at the top.

  Finally, over breakfast on the fourth day, Ulan said to Ilbana, “I do miss your husband. Would you mind if I visited his workshop?”

  She looked up in surprise. “I wasn’t aware he had ever taken you there.”

  “But he spoke of it often. I’ve always been curious, and since there are no experiments to interrupt—”

  “Well, I suppose so.” She dabbed sudden tears from her eyes with her napkin. “I’ve kept everything just as it was.”

  “Most admirable. I’m sure he would want it so, my dear.”

  She gestured to Ahmol, who was in attendance that morning. “Unlock the workshop for the khirnari and show him whatever he wants to see.”

  Ilar glanced nervously at his protector, but Ulan merely smiled, apparently unconcerned that they would have a witness.

  When the meal was done, they followed the servant through the fountain court and down the stairs to the workshop. Ahmol took out the big iron key and opened the door, then stood back to allow Ulan to enter. Ilar followed on his heels, keeping his face down and hoping Ahmol didn’t look too closely at him.